


Rage and Comfort

by kams_log



Series: Destiel Prompts & One Shots [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mark of Cain, Nightmares, Retrospective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kams_log/pseuds/kams_log
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first hit Dean landed on the Impala was so shocking, so jarring, it gave him momentary pause. His heart was racing, his blood was pounding in his ears, but nothing could take back the blow of what he’d done. Nothing could replace the horror of it.</p><p>That feeling, that rage, was not unlike the feeling that coursed through his veins when he hit Castiel for the first time in the bunker. And like then, the second hit was not out of anger against the world and loss, but once again with himself.</p><p>(Character retrospect over the seasons.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage and Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a gifset of back in season 2, when dean was beating the Impala with a crowbar. the look on his face after it was finished reminded me of dean's face after he slammed his blade into the book by cas's face. so naturally, i had to write something.
> 
> i hope you like it!

Dean could remember the moment, years ago. Back so far that Dean wondered where the time went.

It was probably ten years ago. John had died. The Impala was totaled, and nothing was the way it should’ve been. He’d spent days working on his Baby, putting her back together again piece by piece. It would have been easier to put her out of her misery. But Dean couldn’t let go. Out of all the things he was losing, he needed the security of this one thing.

The Impala was his home, his first true love. He needed to keep her, restore her, bring her back to her glory and prove to everyone that she was fine. He was fine.

And then nothing was fine. Nothing was fine at all.

The first hit Dean landed on the Impala was so shocking, so jarring, it gave him momentary pause. His heart was racing, his blood was pounding in his ears, but nothing could take back the blow of what he’d done. Nothing could replace the horror of it.

He’d just hit one of the most precious items in his life, his home, his baby--the same vehicle he’d just spent days restoring.

He was horrified. But the pause was brief, shocking, traumatic. It was enough to startle him into another hit, and then another, until suddenly he was screaming and beating his love into the ground. And he couldn’t stop until he was seething and felt his heart shatter inside him.

Because the first hit was anger, pain, rage. It was lashing out at the pain he refused to admit to even himself. But the second hit wasn’t anger for his loss; it was anger for himself.

That feeling, that rage, was not unlike the feeling that coursed through his veins when he hit Castiel for the first time in the bunker. And like then, the second hit was not out of anger against the world and loss, but once again with _himself_.

There was no peace for what he’d done because he was no longer himself anymore. He knew it the moment he threw the first punch. It was driven home with the blade into the book, so dangerously close to Cas’s head that Dean wanted to throw up right then and there.

He wanted to scream, cry maybe. But he couldn’t. He only felt numb. There was nothing left inside him but the rage, the pain. He remembered the shattering feeling inside when he finally dropped the crowbar from his Impala.

It was the same feeling as when he dropped the blade, and walked away with the ringing threat he knew he didn’t believe in, “Next time I won’t miss.”

The mark was gone now. He was… him, again. Maybe. He wasn’t always sure.

Sometimes he caught himself rubbing his arm, half believing it was still there, just beneath his skin. It tingled late at night, reminding him of what he’d done. The weakness he’d been unable to stand against. It roared in his ears and his nightmares, only comforted by the sound of footsteps outside his bedroom door, by his brother’s groggy face in the mornings, and Cas’s gentle smiles in the evening over dinner and late night coffee.

Dean knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness. The Mark was gone, but his actions were not. They still had their consequences, and people were dead because of him. It was all his fault, and he knew it.

Dean knew he shouldn’t have put so much blame on Sam. In the end, Sam was only trying to save him from his own mistakes.

Dean was the one who accepted the Mark without a thought. Dean was the one who kept pushing Sam away, telling him he was fine and stopping every opportunity to heal himself.

He told himself he wanted to be cured. God knew he wanted to be cured. But there was always the nagging sensation, just at the back of his mind (or maybe even in his arm), telling him that something wasn’t right. Something was never right.

It was only after he was cured Dean was able to look back and realize it was always the Mark feeding him that fear, also pushing away anything that might destroy it. Dean had been too afraid to see it. He was too paranoid.

He’d always been paranoid. Even now that the Mark was gone, he’d lost track of the times he’d stopped and checked himself, wondering if his anger was genuinely his, or if there was still a lingering darkness inside him.

Cas was learning to notice Dean’s tells. He’d place a hand over Dean’s arm sometimes, late at night when Dean couldn’t sleep and sat at the kitchen table, nursing too much alcohol and wondering if the world was even still real, or if he was still living in a dream and any moment he’d wake up a demon again.

Cas would always wander in quietly, brace a warm hand over Dean’s clammy skin, and squeeze gently. Dean would find himself shuddering out all the air he’d been holding in, and then he’d crumble, and Cas would just let him… be.

It was more than he deserved. But he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the nights that they didn’t meet in the kitchen, instead Cas coming to his room when he was unable to hold in his sobs in the darkness. Cas would touch him gently, as he always did, and then when Dean wouldn’t let him go, Cas would quietly climb onto the bed and settle beside him, content to hold Dean when Dean was too embarrassed and ashamed to reach out for the comfort they both knew he desperately needed.

Touches and hugs eventually grew into caresses, and then kisses. First on the forehead when Dean couldn’t stop shaking after a nightmare, second on his shoulder as he felt himself finally drift off into sleep again.

And then finally, finally, a soft and gentle kiss to the corner of his lips when Dean struggles to re-embrace reality, remember that he was real, the Mark was gone, and they were actually safe again. For now.

Dean had been so startled he’d frozen, shocked, and surprisingly not horrified. He flashed back to the Impala, to the time he’d hit Cas. It was a similar shock to then. But this time, there was no horror, no rage or pain. Only blissful, cool comfort. And he’d been so stunned, that like then, he’d been unable to stop when he grabbed hold of Cas’s shirt and pulled him in for another, and then another, and another until there was no space between them but arms, legs, and hungry, cherished kisses that Dean was determined to never let go again.

He knew he didn’t deserve it, the kindness. But the way Cas looked at him in the morning after, the gentle shining in his eyes and the whites of his teeth when he smiled at him like he was the morning sun, Dean desperately wanted to believe he could have it after all.

It took time. Weeks, months, years. Dean lost track.

But in the end, when he held Cas’s hand and looked back at all the hell they’d been through, Dean found himself smiling and looking back at Cas.

Cas, and his lightning eyes and morning smile, and Dean finally knew it, understood it, and cherished it.

He might not have deserved it. But the gift was greater than anything he’d ever been given, and Dean was never letting go.

But holding on was easy when an angel of the lord was holding on to him too.

**Author's Note:**

> me: lovefromdean.tumblr.com


End file.
